


Richie Todd Wayne Goes To Paris

by jacksgreysays (jacksgreyson)



Category: DCU, Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Future, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksgreyson/pseuds/jacksgreysays
Summary: Mr. Drake looks at him and sighs, before tossing over his phone. Richie’s going to be Robin one day, so it’s no problem to catch it.“Call your family. Let them know where you are, and that you’re safe… And ask for permission. If they actually want me to train you, then I will,” the man says, all resigned exhalations, while Richie types in the number for the Manor. He would feel bad about being so clearly considered a nuisance, except he’s stuck on something and has to ask.“Don’t you mean our family?”Mr. Drake just smiles and shakes his head.(future fic set in mgnemesi's baby!verse. originally posted on tumblr)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [baby!verse](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/303948) by mgnemesi. 



> _This is future fic of[@mgnemesi](http://tmblr.co/mKU0jOvt8AKZwifVOBqju2g)‘s [baby!verse](http://mgnemesi.tumblr.com/post/16758032919/babyfic-masterlist-post), in which Jason Todd is suddenly in charge of a baby and goes to the only person in Gotham who can help–Alfred._

On Richie’s thirteenth birthday, when he blows out the candles on his cake, he makes the same wish he always makes.

At first he thinks it’s a waste of a birthday wish. He’s pretty sure he’ll be Robin this year, even without the wish; after all, Damian has taken over as Batman full time already. But as time passes and Damian continues to patrol without him, he begins to doubt.

“I don’t get it,” Richie says, perched on the gurney, helping Alfred take inventory of the Cave’s medical supplies.

Scarecrow and Poison Ivy are both out of Arkham, so they’ll likely need to have antidotes on hand. This, at least, Richie is allowed to help with.

“… doesn’t Batman need a Robin?”

Alfred’s hands still over the vials of antihistamines, “Perhaps, young Master Richard,” he says carefully, “You should consider a change in your summer holiday plans.”

—

Tim is en route from the London HQ to his main flat in Paris when Vivienne sends a message over the comms: the team caught an intruder trying to break into the Paris HQ.

Normally, Tim would consider this an opportunity for the team to exercise some independence. He knows they have the protocol memorized, and anyway he trusts their judgement. He wouldn’t have chosen them for Batman Inc, otherwise. But in this case…

“I’m sorry, what did you say his name was?” Tim repeats, though he knows he didn’t mishear the first time.

“Richard Todd Wayne. He says he’s here for you.”

—

It takes only six hours for Jason to realize that his son is missing, and only because he was unconscious for four of those.

“What do you mean, you don’t know where he is?” Jason seethes, hands clenched tightly into fists.

“It’s Friday. Doesn’t Richie usually hang out with his friends after school on Friday?” Dick shrugs, not yet aware of danger he’s in.

“Tt,” Damian’s voice snaps out, “School’s been out for two weeks already.”

Meaning Richie should be home, pestering one of them for more training. He certainly wouldn’t have passed up the chance to get some aerial practice with the first Robin.

Bruce sits silently, his mouth a flat worried line.

“WHERE IS MY SON?” Jason growls, about to fly off the handle completely, when Alfred steps into the room and clears his throat.

“Sirs. Master Jason has a call on the Manor line.”

All of them pounce for the phone on Bruce’s desk.

—

After a few minutes of rather explosive back and forth shouting, Richie sullenly holds out the phone and says, “They want to talk to you.”

Tim bites back the bitter automatic response–that would be a first–and instead dials it down to a skeptical, “Did they actually say that, or do you no longer want to get yelled at?”

Baby Richie–except he’s not a baby anymore, god, he’s a teenager has it really been so long?–blushes but continues to stubbornly hold out the phone, so Tim takes it and brings it to his ear.

“… and if you don’t get on a plane back right this second,” says someone’s voice. But it’s been a while–a decade–since Tim has heard any of the family’s voices, so he can’t tell who is speaking.

That’s a lie, of course he knows who it is.

“Hello, Jason.” Tim says, unflinching at the volume.

“… Pretender?”

At that, Tim does flinch. But only Richie is there to see, and he’s still busy sulking, so it’s alright.

“Yes, it’s Tim.”

—

Shit.

Shit. Fuck. Goddamnit. Shit.

The first word he’s said–the first word any of them say– to Tim in fucking years and of fucking course it’s Jason calling him Pretender.

God fucking damn it.

The others stare at him wide eyed, before Dickie reaches for the speaker button. For some reason, Jason slaps his hand away.

“Hey, Tim,” Jason tries not to croak in surprise, scrambles to come up with anything else to say and falls short.

Silence reigns for a few moments–shit, why is Richie there, how did he even find you, how have you been, there’s too much shit bouncing around in his head to think properly–before Tim picks up the slack and says calmly, as if this phone call is a common occurrence, “Richie’s with me. We’re in my Paris apartment. He’s safe and uninjured.”

At that, Jason shudders out of his fucking stupor, the heavy weight of concern dissipating with a few select words.

“He says he was sent here for training but…”

Jason snorts, “How quickly did you see through that lie?”

Another pause. Duh, they’re not that familiar with each other. Even before, they were never that close.

“Marinette was the one to catch it, actually,” Tim says and doesn’t clarify, “But I know there would have been an email or a memo, if it were true. Anyway, if he’s not meant to be here, I can bring him to the airport. Have him set up on the next flight back to Gotham.”

It’s on the edge of his tongue to say yes. To say, why don’t you come back with him? But Tim, thankfully, continues.

“But… if you’d like. I doubt he’s missing anything, but I can see if there’s anything I can train him in. Maybe some undercover work.”

It’s true that Tim was the best out of them at undercover work. But Jason can’t help but think that it’s a jab at the Pretender comment.

“Yeah, that’d be–” he says, before being cut off by a wave of sound from Richie.

“Oh please, Dad! Oh please, please, please!” his son’s voice shouts out, overwhelming Tim’s completely.

—

Tim quickly hands the phone back to Richie, in order to spare his eardrums, and mentally goes through his schedule for the next few days–he doubts Richie is going to want to stay for very long.

He was being honest when he said that the teen’s training was likely already complete. There’s not much Tim can teach Richie that someone else couldn’t do a better job. He’ll get bored and go home after a week.

Yeah, Tim can postpone some meetings to next week. And it’s not like Wayne Enterprises is going to fire him when it’s for the Wayne family’s youngest member.

“I will, promise. Thanks, Dad!” Richie says, bright and cheerful, and why wouldn’t he be? “I love you, too,” he finishes, before hanging up.

Tim pretends that the catch in his chest is relief at not having to talk to the family. He’s good at that. Pretending, that is.


	2. Day One

First thing in the morning, over a breakfast nowhere near as good as Alfred’s but far superior to Uncle Dick’s, Mr. Drake asks him, “How’s your French?”

Richie, bleary-eyed but still determined to make a good impression, blinks and dutifully says, “Entre horrible et médiocre.”

Mr. Drake hums in response and says nothing for the rest of the meal.

Half an hour later, as they are leaving the flat to go to the team’s headquarters, Mr. Drake finally responds, “From now on, you can only speak in French.”

An immediate protest tries to claw its way out of Richie’s mouth, but he bites it back. Still, something must show on his face, because one of Mr. Drake’s eyebrows raise.

“You came to France to learn, so you will learn in French. If you wanted to learn in English, you should have ambushed me in the London HQ. Or,” he says, a smirk slowly spilling across his face, “You could go back to Gotham, everyone speaks English there.”

Rather than discouraging Richie, it fires him up. The challenge is similar enough to his dad and aunts and uncles’ training that it feels familiar, “Je serai Robin!”

The smirk flickers into a pleased smile, before fading away, back to Mr. Drake’s blank expression.

The trip is made in silence, an unusual state of being for Richie; he plans to brush up on his French so it won’t happen again tomorrow.

—

Richie didn’t notice it yesterday–what with the late hour and being detained by the team as an intruder–but the Batman Inc headquarters in Paris is rather pretty. Especially in comparison to the Cave which, while kitted out to the extreme and very impressive, is still a literal cave.

In contrast, the Paris HQ is bright and airy, mostly windows to let in natural light and the walls either painted to enhance that or glass. It looks more like an art gallery or the offices of a popular fashion magazine, all the better to blend in with it’s surroundings. The physical transparency of the building somehow hiding it’s secret vigilante operations.

Well, that is ostensibly what he came here to learn.

In the light of day, and without the suspicion of being a villain of some sort, the Paris operatives are far happier to see him than they were yesterday. At the very least, they aren’t tying him up and glaring at him, which is a notably big improvement from last night.

But they watch him with wary eyes, only stepping forward and speaking when Mr. Drake rests a hand on his shoulder and says, “Team, this is Richard Todd Wayne from Gotham. He’s here for some undercover training,” in French, of course.

Maybe Richie’s not translating it correctly, or maybe there’s something he’s missing, because the suspicious cast on the team’s faces turns gleeful. Sadistically so.

“Men’s Fashion Week is coming up…” one of them says, a black-haired woman in pink polka dots.

“We do have a concert coming up, as well,” the blonde woman adds.

And suddenly there is a flurry of conversation too fast-paced for Richie to follow, different members chiming in at random times. It kind of reminds him of dinner at the Manor. Except with less threat of being stabbed with a fork… probably.

“I’m sure Richie will appreciate the many learning opportunities,” Mr. Drake says firmly, bringing the discussion to a close, before dropping the hand off Richie’s shoulder, “Before that… Who wants to give him the tour?”


End file.
